第67章

It was high noon, and the rays of the sun, that hung poised directly overhead in an intolerable white glory, fell straight as plummets upon the roofs and streets of Guadalajara.The adobe walls and sparse brick sidewalks of the drowsing town radiated the heat in an oily, quivering shimmer.The leaves of the eucalyptus trees around the Plaza drooped motionless, limp and relaxed under the scorching, searching blaze.The shadows of these trees had shrunk to their smallest circumference, contracting close about the trunks.The shade had dwindled to the breadth of a mere line.The sun was everywhere.The heat exhaling from brick and plaster and metal met the heat that steadily descended blanketwise and smothering, from the pale, scorched sky.Only the lizards--they lived in chinks of the crumbling adobe and in interstices of the sidewalk--remained without, motionless, as if stuffed, their eyes closed to mere slits, basking, stupefied with heat.At long intervals the prolonged drone of an insect developed out of the silence, vibrated a moment in a soothing, somnolent, long note, then trailed slowly into the quiet again.Somewhere in the interior of one of the 'dobe houses a guitar snored and hummed sleepily.

On the roof of the hotel a group of pigeons cooed incessantly with subdued, liquid murmurs, very plaintive; a cat, perfectly white, with a pink nose and thin, pink lips, dozed complacently on a fence rail, full in the sun.In a corner of the Plaza three hens wallowed in the baking hot dust their wings fluttering, clucking comfortably.

And this was all.A Sunday repose prevailed the whole moribund town, peaceful, profound.A certain pleasing numbness, a sense of grateful enervation exhaled from the scorching plaster.There was no movement, no sound of human business.The faint hum of the insect, the intermittent murmur of the guitar, the mellow complainings of the pigeons, the prolonged purr of the white cat, the contented clucking of the hens--all these noises mingled together to form a faint, drowsy bourdon, prolonged, stupefying, suggestive of an infinite quiet, of a calm, complacent life, centuries old, lapsing gradually to its end under the gorgeous loneliness of a cloudless, pale blue sky and the steady fire of an interminable sun.

In Solotari's Spanish-Mexican restaurant, Vanamee and Presley sat opposite each other at one of the tables near the door, a bottle of white wine, tortillas, and an earthen pot of frijoles between them.They were the sole occupants of the place.It was the day that Annixter had chosen for his barn-dance and, in consequence, Quien Sabe was in fete and work suspended.Presley and Vanamee had arranged to spend the day in each other's company, lunching at Solotari's and taking a long tramp in the afternoon.For the moment they sat back in their chairs, their meal all but finished.Solotari brought black coffee and a small carafe of mescal, and retiring to a corner of the room, went to sleep.

All through the meal Presley had been wondering over a certain change he observed in his friend.He looked at him again.

Vanamee's lean, spare face was of an olive pallor.His long, black hair, such as one sees in the saints and evangelists of the pre-Raphaelite artists, hung over his ears.Presley again remarked his pointed beard, black and fine, growing from the hollow cheeks.He looked at his face, a face like that of a young seer, like a half-inspired shepherd of the Hebraic legends, a dweller in the wilderness, gifted with strange powers.He was dressed as when Presley had first met him, herding his sheep, in brown canvas overalls, thrust into top boots; grey flannel shirt, open at the throat, showing the breast ruddy with tan; the waist encircled with a cartridge belt, empty of cartridges.

But now, as Presley took more careful note of him, he was surprised to observe a certain new look in Vanamee's deep-set eyes.He remembered now that all through the morning Vanamee had been singularly reserved.He was continually drifting into reveries, abstracted, distrait.Indubitably, something of moment had happened.

At length Vanamee spoke.Leaning back in his chair, his thumbs in his belt, his bearded chin upon his breast, his voice was the even monotone of one speaking in his sleep.

He told Presley in a few words what had happened during the first night he had spent in the garden of the old Mission, of the Answer, half-fancied, half-real, that had come to him.

"To no other person but you would I speak of this," he said, "but you, I think, will understand--will be sympathetic, at least, and I feel the need of unburdening myself of it to some one.At first I would not trust my own senses.I was sure I had deceived myself, but on a second night it happened again.Then I was afraid--or no, not afraid, but disturbed--oh, shaken to my very heart's core.I resolved to go no further in the matter, never again to put it to test.For a long time I stayed away from the Mission, occupying myself with my work, keeping it out of my mind.But the temptation was too strong.One night I found myself there again, under the black shadow of the pear trees calling for Angele, summoning her from out the dark, from out the night.This time the Answer was prompt, unmistakable.I cannot explain to you what it was, nor how it came to me, for there was no sound.I saw absolutely nothing but the empty night.There was no moon.But somewhere off there over the little valley, far off, the darkness was troubled; that ME that went out upon my thought--out from the Mission garden, out over the valley, calling for her, searching for her, found, I don't know what, but found a resting place--a companion.Three times since then Ihave gone to the Mission garden at night.Last night was the third time."He paused, his eyes shining with excitement.Presley leaned forward toward him, motionless with intense absorption.

"Well--and last night," he prompted.

Vanamee stirred in his seat, his glance fell, he drummed an instant upon the table.